NYPD Red 2 Read online

  “Mayor Spellman is crazy as a shithouse rat,” she said.

  “Isn’t that Muriel Sykes’s campaign slogan?” I said.

  In times of stress, inappropriate humor has always been the glue that binds cops together, so despite the difference in our ranks and the gravity of the situation, Cates laughed out loud. She quickly covered her mouth and turned the laugh into a cough.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “Muriel Sykes is about to hold a press conference,” Cates said. “Irwin dragged the mayor out here so they can watch it, videotape some kind of rebuttal, and get it on the air before his entire campaign spins out of control.”

  “That explains why they’re here,” I said. “Why are we here?”

  “Because you’re the lead detectives on the serial killer case that Sykes is using against him, and he’s hoping you’ll give him something to say.”

  “You want us to give him something to say? How about ‘I concede the election and wish Muriel Sykes the best of luck in running the city that I couldn’t’?”

  This time she didn’t laugh.

  “Captain,” I said, “you heard Irwin on Monday. The mayor is in a hole that he dug himself. NYPD wanted to investigate Evelyn Parker-Steele for the murder of Cynthia Pritchard, but Leonard Parker put pressure on City Hall. The mayor caved, Evelyn walked, and the vigilante serial killer who’s been running loose in the city made her his fourth victim.”

  “Detectives!” It was Irwin Diamond. “Glad you’re here. Captain Cates tells us you were out in New Jersey talking to Rachael O’Keefe’s sister.”

  The mayor jumped in. “Is there a connection? Is her kidnapping related to the Hazmat Killer?”

  “Sir, we have no proof that Rachael’s kidnapping is connected to the other cases,” I said, “but everything points to the fact that Rachael could be victim number five.”

  “Why is she our number five? Why isn’t she New Jersey’s victim number one?”

  “She was taken from Jersey, but the information on where she was hiding may well have come from New York City.”

  “And not just from the city,” Kylie added, “but possibly from a city official connected to the case. Detective Jordan and I were just on our way into Manhattan to talk to the chief of corrections and the DA’s office to get a list of everyone who knew exactly where Rachael would be. The sooner we can get those names, the better.”

  To the mayor, I’m sure she sounded like a dedicated cop whose sole purpose was to get to Manhattan so she could track down the wrongdoer. To me, she sounded more like Mrs. Spence Harrington determined to get the hell out of Silvercup as fast as possible. It didn’t matter. She was right on both counts.

  “Is the word out yet that O’Keefe has been kidnapped?” Diamond asked.

  Cates held up a hand to let us know she would take the question.

  “Irwin, we’re working way outside our jurisdiction,” she said. “We’re bending the boundaries because this kidnapping seems to be tied to the Hazmat case. Our people went in and got out under the radar, but the Jersey cops and the Feds will be on it in no time. And if you think Rachael O’Keefe dominated the airwaves during the trial, just wait till this breaks. The twenty-four-hour news cycle will be all Rachael, all the time.”

  “Understood,” Diamond said. “But it’s still under wraps?”

  “For now,” Cates said.

  “Good,” he said, “because Muriel Sykes is holding a press conference in two minutes, and at least she won’t have this shit to fling at the fan.”

  Chapter 54

  “She’s coming on,” Shelley Trager called out. He had drifted away from the group and was standing in front of a large TV monitor that had been rolled in on a metal stand.

  The rest of us gathered around, and the picture cut away from two NY1 news anchors to Muriel Sykes standing at a podium. There was a backdrop with her campaign logo behind her and two flags positioned strategically over her left shoulder—one, the Stars and Stripes; the other, the orange, white, and blue flag of New York City.

  She was the picture of confidence—standing tall, smartly dressed, seemingly at ease despite the difficult road ahead. Hello, Central Casting, send me a strong woman who looks like she could be mayor.

  I stole a glance at Spellman. He was stoop-shouldered and world-weary. He looked more like the guy Central Casting would send over to play a bus driver at the end of a long day.

  “Good afternoon,” Sykes said directly to the camera. “For the past nine months you’ve all seen me aggressively campaigning for mayor. But this press conference is not about politics. It’s about a sad personal loss, and I have asked my dear friend Damon Parker to make an opening statement. He is not here in his capacity as an internationally respected journalist, but as the grieving brother of my brutally tortured and murdered campaign manager, Evelyn Parker-Steele.”

  “What a crock of shit,” Diamond said as Muriel moved to the side and Parker stepped up to the podium. “Evelyn hated that phony blowhard asshole.”

  “The murder of my sister, Evelyn, has shattered our family,” Parker said in a somber voice. Gone were the histrionics and shouts of The People Want to Know. In keeping with his intro, the man put on his best internationally respected journalist facade.

  “But even more devastating than her death,” he said, “is this blatantly coerced video confession. It is nothing more than a fabricated atrocity created to tarnish our family name and to undermine the progressive reforms of U.S. Attorney Muriel Sykes’s mayoral campaign. This is a personal and political attack that wounds my heart as her brother and aggrieves my spirit as a citizen of the greatest city in the world.”

  “I’m glad Muriel made it clear that this is not about politics,” Irwin said.

  Parker continued, “The tragic death of Cynthia Pritchard weighed heavily on my sister’s heart every day of her life, and for a sadistic torturer…” He paused and choked up convincingly.

  “And for a sadistic torturer to force my sister to spout these pre-scripted lies is almost too much to bear. Our family has received thousands of emails, letters, and phone calls denouncing this staged confession, and no words have been more heartfelt or more comforting than those that came from the woman for whom my sister gave her last ounce of energy and devotion—Muriel Sykes.”

  He placed his hand to his chest and turned reverentially to Sykes. They exchanged a brief hug, and she took his place at the podium.

  “Talk about pre-scripted lies,” Irwin said. “What a performance.”

  Sykes looked into the camera, her eyes filled with compassion. “My deepest condolences to the Parker and Steele families,” she said. “The senseless killing of Evelyn Parker-Steele should never have happened. She was the fourth victim of a cold-blooded serial killer—a murderer who should have been brought to justice months ago. As U.S. attorney, I would never have tolerated the kind of misguided street vengeance that has been the hallmark of the sick individual who continues to stalk the streets of our city.”

  Irwin had a pen and a pad and was either taking notes, writing a rebuttal, or drafting the mayor’s concession speech.

  “I will not politicize Evelyn’s death,” Sykes said.

  “Could have fooled me,” Irwin called out, still scribbling.

  “But I will politicize the need for the kind of bold leadership that will give our police—and our entire law enforcement community—the support and resources it needs to protect our city and its citizens from those who seek to do it harm,” Sykes said. “Thank you. Are there any questions?”

  Reporters started shouting, and Irwin stepped up to the television and turned it off.

  “I don’t want to watch Muriel Sykes answer a bunch of bullshit questions that Damon Parker planted with the press,” he said. “The man’s a powerhouse. He just endorsed our opponent, and it’s only going to get worse. I have a script for a stopgap commercial the mayor can shoot immediately, but it’s a Hail Mary. Once the public finds out that Rachael O’Keefe
has been kidnapped, they’ll forget that she’s a child murderer, and Damon Parker will spin her into a martyr who was falsely imprisoned, found innocent, begged for protection from NYPD, and was thrown to the wolves by an insensitive, uncaring mayor. Nothing personal, Stan. I’m just trying to point out how they’re going to skewer you.”

  “No, no, Irwin,” Spellman said. “I’m convinced. I’m voting for Muriel.”

  Diamond gave his best friend a half smile. “We’re not dead yet, Stan.”

  The mayor didn’t look convinced. “What do you suggest?”

  “I suggest that we find Rachael O’Keefe while she’s still alive, and bring in the Hazmat Killer—or as many of them as are out there.”

  He said “we,” but he was staring directly at Kylie and me when he said it.

  “Can you do it, Detectives?” Diamond asked about as casually as a guy asking his buddies if they could come over and help paint the garage. “Can you?”

  “Sir,” I said, “NYPD will do everything in our—”

  “I don’t care if you can do it!” the mayor erupted. “I only care if you can do it while I’m still in office. I need to be there for the victory dance, and it damn well better happen before Election Day, because after that, I don’t give a flying fuck!”

  He stormed out of the studio with Irwin Diamond right behind him.

  Cates looked at us and shrugged. “Like I said—crazy as a shithouse rat. Keep me posted,” she said, and followed them out the door.

  Shelley Trager hadn’t said a word to us since we came in. Now he walked over to Kylie and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m going back to my office,” he said softly. “Meet me there in five minutes. We have to talk.”

  He too left the studio, and Kylie and I just stood there.

  “I’ll wait for you in the car,” I said. “You go talk to Shelley.”

  “No,” she said, looking as close to shell-shocked as I’d ever seen her. “Go with me. Please.”

  Chapter 55

  “At least the haystack is getting smaller,” Kylie said as we walked past the carpenters’ shop toward Shelley’s office.

  “I’m not up on all the hip cop talk,” I said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means we’ve been looking for a needle in a giant haystack. On Monday we had about eight million suspects. But this lead narrows it down to a handful of people who could have known where Rachael was going. It’s a much smaller haystack.”

  “And we’re looking for two needles,” I said.

  We entered Studio 1 and took the elevator to the fourth-floor production offices. Kylie led the way down the hall to Shelley Trager’s corner suite. The door was open. “We’re here,” she said.

  Shelley looked up from his desk. “We? Oh…Zach.”

  “Do you mind?” Kylie asked. “Whatever you have to tell me, you can say in front of Zach. He knows everything.”

  “Not at all. Come in. Both of you,” Shelley said.

  The room was big and bright, wrapped with eight picture windows—five on the 21st Street side and three on the Queens Plaza side. Directly outside, I could see the steel and stone of the Ed Koch Queensboro Bridge, a magnificent century-old New York City landmark that cantilevered across the East River, straddled Roosevelt Island, and finally disappeared into the skyline of midtown Manhattan.

  “I was going to call and give you an update,” Shelley said, “but when I heard you were coming here, I decided it’s easier in person. Have a seat.”

  “How’s Spence?” Kylie said as we sat in the two black leather chairs in front of Shelley’s desk.

  “Spence is okay, but he’s in full-blown denial,” Shelley said. “As much as I love him, I run a business, and I can’t have him back in the studio until he cleans up his act. He’s a major liability. And on the personal side, I hate seeing him do this to himself, so I’m happier if I don’t have to watch.”

  “I understand,” Kylie said. “I wish I didn’t have to watch either.”

  “You don’t,” Shelley said. “We have a nice little apartment on East End Avenue. You can move in there for a while.”

  “A nice little apartment?” Kylie said. She turned to me. “Zach, you should see it. Tenth floor, view of the river, and it’s got three bedrooms.”

  “Two bedrooms and a conference room,” Shelley explained to me, as if calling one of the bedrooms by another name would make it sound smaller. “It’s a corporate apartment. We use it all the time when the big stars fly in to shoot here. It’s nicer than a hotel.”

  “Zach, I’ve been there,” Kylie said. “Trust me, it’s nicer than most New York City apartments.”

  Shelley shrugged. “So it’s nice. So it’s big. If I had something smaller and not so nice, I’d be glad to give it to you, but this is all I’ve got.”

  It was classic old school New York charm, and Kylie smiled. “I don’t know, Shelley,” she said.

  “Look,” he said, “we’re between celebrity guests, so the place is empty. It costs us a bundle whether it’s being used or not, so if you move in for a few weeks, you’d be doing me a favor. What do you say?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  Shelley threw up his hands and turned to me. “Zach, help me out here. Explain to your thickheaded partner that both she and her husband could use a little space for a while. Go ahead. Tell her.”

  I turned and looked at my thickheaded partner. “Kylie,” I said, “please explain to your extremely generous friend that I’m only here as moral support, and you’d appreciate it if he didn’t upgrade me to marriage counselor.”

  “Shelley, Zach’s right. This is a decision I have to make with Spence.”

  “Honey, right now Spence isn’t up to making decisions about anything,” Shelley said. “And if you don’t get a couple of good nights’ sleep, you won’t be up to it either. It’ll be a lot easier for the two of you to sort things out if you each take some time to decompress. Do me a favor. At least take the apartment for a few days.”

  Kylie looked at me for an answer. I shook my head. “Sorry,” I said. “This one’s your call.”

  She let out a sigh. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll give it a shot. One night. We’ll see how it goes.”

  Shelley came around the desk and gave her a hug. “The doorman already has your name. He’ll give you the keys, and I’ll have the concierge stock the refrigerator.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I have no idea how I can ever pay you back, but I owe you one.”

  “You want to pay me back?” he said. “Go out and find this crazy Hazmat person. Then me and the rest of this fakakta city would owe you one.”

  Chapter 56

  “Tieni i tuoi amici vicino, ma i tuoi nemici più vicino,” Joe reminded Teresa before he sent her off to thank Emma Frye for her act of kindness.

  Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer—that, Teresa could live with. But thank her? She wanted to grab the Frye woman by the throat and scream, “How did you get my dead son’s journal?”

  Joe gave her instructions on how to play it. “Just be nice to her. Remember, you can catch more flies with honey,” he said.

  She loved her husband, but every time he laid that “more flies with honey” line on her, she wanted to say, “Is that how you win people over, Joe? With honey?”

  Teresa didn’t call in advance. She simply arrived at Frye’s house. The woman almost peed her pants when she opened the door.

  “Mrs. Salvi,” Frye said, even though they’d never been introduced.

  Of course she knows me, Teresa thought. The Salvis are Howard Beach royalty.

  “I just came to thank you. Mother to mother,” she added, letting her voice catch.

  Emma Frye, of course, invited her in for coffee and apologized profusely that the house was such a mess. Teresa in turn apologized for showing up unannounced. They bonded like long-lost sisters.

  After ten minutes, Teresa got to the crux of it all. “So how did you come to find m
y Enzo’s journal?” she asked offhandedly.

  “It was in my son’s room,” Emma said. “My husband and I are renovating, and I was collecting all of Gideon’s old things when I found the journal.”

  “Gideon,” Teresa said. “I remember a boy named Gideon, but not Frye.”

  “Oh, my first husband, Gideon’s father, passed away two years ago. We owned the flower shop on Cross Bay Boulevard.”

  “Cross Bay Flowers? I’ve ordered from there many times.”

  Emma beamed. “I know. I’m the one who takes your orders over the phone.”

  “What a small world,” Teresa said. “Now I know who your son is. The name Frye threw me off.”

  “I’m remarried now.”

  “How wonderful that you could find happiness so soon after your loss,” Teresa said. “I had no idea that our sons were friends back in high school.”

  “Me either. You know teenage boys. They don’t tell their mothers anything.”

  Irish boys, maybe. But Enzo told me plenty. Our sons were never friends. Ever.

  Teresa sipped her coffee. “This explains how Enzo’s journal wound up in your son’s room. The boys were probably hanging out together.”

  Emma shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “And how is your Gideon doing these days?”

  “Fine…” Emma hesitated.

  “You say fine, but it sounds like something is wrong,” Teresa said.

  “No, no. I was about to say I only wish I could see more of him, but that’s such an insensitive thing to say to a woman who can never see her son. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Salvi.”

  “No apologies necessary, and please, you must call me Teresa. All my friends do. But now I’m curious why you can’t see more of Gideon. Did he move away?”